


Lights of Endangered Species

by elfladyarwen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfladyarwen/pseuds/elfladyarwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has a secret, a dangerous secret about his occupation that can destroy lives if shared. But since falling for Dean Winchester, he's found a happy medium between his job and personal life, neither one ever knowing about the other. Until the day he finds out Dean has a dangerous secret of his own. And now it's looking like only one of them will make it out with the information alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights of Endangered Species

**Author's Note:**

> To my recipient: I'm sorry if AU's seem too cracky, but I tried to incorporate a lot of desperation and possessiveness into this fic, with a touch of BAMF! characters for good measure. xD A very Merry Christmas to you, darhling! I hope you enjoy this. *snugs*

The wind that screeches through the panes of the warehouse windows is biting and frigid. It’s the kind that cuts to the bone and makes a man shield himself and duck for cover. The decrepit old building has little defense against it, and the panels of glass rattle in alarm as the wind sweeps by, stealing away any hint of warmth still lingering. 

The cold does not bother Castiel. He welcomes it, finding familiarity in the stillness it brings. He adjusts the cuffs of his coat sleeves, tugging them down securely over his leather gloves and ignores the way his breath curls up into his vision in thick white wisps. It hovers for a moment around the tips of his dark hair like a halo before fading into the rest of the musty, stagnant air of the warehouse.

He stands for several minutes, peering through the cracked glass at the shorter buildings below. Everything that moves, and everything that doesn’t is cataloged away, his eyes skimming over the negative space between shapes, the variation of color in the shadows, and the angles created by how the city blocks mesh together. Castiel is an observer, his attention to detail one of the reasons he is the best. Every new ground zero is chosen with painstaking care and research, hundreds of variables narrowing down prospects, until nothing remains but mathematical certainty of a successful shot and a clean getaway. This one might be the best location he’s chosen yet. It’s a far enough distance to avoid the wandering eyes of a bystander and close enough to still be on the inner cusp of his maximum shooting range. The guarantee of completing a job, but also enough of a challenge to satisfy someone of his remarkable skill. In short, it’s the kind of job that would normally leave him pleased and preening. 

But Castiel wants nothing to do with this place. He wants nothing to do with this job. Not this time.

When enough cars have passed like ants on the street below to thin the traffic to little more than a trickle, Castiel tears his gaze away from the window and moves to the silver case stashed neatly against the dust board. He runs his gloved fingers along the edges in ritual, the slide of leather over metal a sound soothing and familiar, the click-snap of the locks an old friend. He traces the engraved logo of the Seraphim Conglomerate on the top, the feathers of each arched wing receiving equal attention before the case is opened. 

Normally he would show the beautiful weapon lying inside just as much affection, but today the sniper rifle looks as cold and heavy as lead. He’s hesitant to touch it. When he finally lifts it from the velvet, it’s bulky in his hands, a hindrance instead of becoming an extension of his body as usual. He hates this weapon today and what it stands for. He hates what it has made him become. Above all, he hates that despite these things, he still assembles it with the same silent precision, the same gentle devotion. His moments are almost involuntary, the muscle memory taking over and before he realizes it, the gun is loaded with a full clip, scope in place and secured onto the spiked feet at the base of the window. 

Castiel sighs, frowning disapprovingly at the elegant object, as if it might defend itself against the negative thoughts he casts upon it. It of course, says nothing; it is always silent, save the brief, invisible moment when it roars and steals another unsuspecting soul for Heaven’s count. They call Castiel and his brothers like him ‘Killer Angels.” But he is only the messenger; it is the gun who does the reaping. That’s the doctrine they’ve drilled into him at least. The Angels only exist to serve; the Angels protect the greater good, in turn bloodying their hands beyond recall of anything human and morale. 

Castiel thinks it’s a load of shit. He doesn’t need this gun to take lives anymore than the Seraphim Conglomerate needs to bribe the New York City police and the IRS into avoiding company inspections. It’s all just a front for the big, dark, seedy secret underneath. When something is rotten at the core, it doesn’t matter how many layers of glamour are painted on top. It’s still something to be cut out. It’s still a pariah. 

Castiel has never felt dirty before. His body count is way past the triple digits and not a one of them has ever made him lose sleep. But as he checks the trajectory of the wind and adjusts the muzzle of his rifle accordingly, he feels soiled to the marrow. The pistol grip feels wrong in his palm and his hands are clammy and slick inside his gloves. He wishes like hell he was anywhere else.

He wishes like hell the man in his job packet won’t step off the 4 o’clock bus. 

But the bus is right on time. And the man, whose picture does him absolutely no justice, sidles off at exactly 48 seconds past the hour. Castiel purses his lips, unhappily, watching through the scope as the man spots someone he is seeking and strides to meet them. He smiles at a shorter man with curly hair, oblivious to the fact his every move is being tracked with laser intensity. He turns and on his profile, Castiel can count the freckles scattered across his high cheekbones. 

Rolling his shoulders, Castiel sinks deeper into his kneel and stills, waiting. The window of opportunity is short and he cannot afford to hesitant more than a few more seconds. He flicks off the safety, index finger curling in to nestle against the trigger. It’s a simple headshot, his M.O. and a kill that’s both clean and merciful. It shouldn’t cause the inability to swallow he’s experiencing or the desire to fidget where he kneels. 

The man is arguing with his counterpart now, leaning in with animated hand gestures and a troubled frown marrs his handsome face. He’s completely distracted and Castiel waits on edge as a second bus momentarily shields the man from view. When it’s passed, the man has collected himself, his face again calm, but something there Castiel might call defeat. As if the curly haired man has just spoken and crushed his dreams with one sentence. 

He freezes when startling green eyes glance up in his direction...and hold. Almost like he can see Castiel’s position and knows exactly what’s about to happen. 

Castiel squints, frowning, and wills the man to turn back around so he doesn’t have to put his bullet directly between the lovely green. It’s impossible to think he’s actually in danger of being seen at this distance. This abandoned building was chosen specifically for the inconspicuous location, with a shot range most snipers wouldn’t dream of attempting. The uneasy prickle of being watched that creeps over his skin can be chalked up to nerves, nothing more. 

The green-eyed man never moves. Never blinks. If anything, his chin lifts a fraction of an inch higher in challenge. Castiel tightens his finger on the trigger, lowering his sight down to catch the man’s jugular in the crosshairs. He tells himself it’s a shame to ruin that perfect face, this location will bring a quick and merciful death just as easily.

With a deep breath through his nose, he prepares to take his kill shot. The white noise of the city fades as his whole world zones in counting his own heartbeats. He uses the rhythm like a countdown, an internal alarm that will sound, setting off the tendons of his trigger hand in one lightning-quick clench. Six. aim. Five. breathe. Four. grip. Three. forgive me. Two-

One corner of the man’s mouth quirks up in a minute smile. It’s not one of amusement. Instead it’s softer, affectionate. It grants both permission and forgiveness. And still the green eyes remain glued to where Castiel crouches, as clear and vibrant through his telescope as if the man was standing no more than half a foot in front of him.

Castiel gasps, unnerved. Both eyes fly wide open, the man with the sad smile blurring and disappearing as he jerks up from the scope. The muzzle of his rifle is tilted back with a soft curse and he sits for a long minute on his heels, pensive, wondering how his immaculate plan had gone so awry in a span of only few seconds. 

Brow furrowed, he stands and swiftly dismantles his rifle, tugging each section gently back into it’s proper place within the shiny case. Once it’s safely packed away, he snaps it closed and tilts his head from side to side, popping the stiff joints in his neck, and tries to slow his adrenaline-spiked heart rate before panic can set in. He has failed his mission. And there’s a high probability a chance like this won’t come again. His target may walk free. 

In his heart, Castiel would ask for nothing more. Unfortunately he knows it won’t happen, because it’s not in the man’s nature to walk away from anything. 

Like a spider to a fly, Castiel can do nothing but wait. And pray to God the fly is smart enough not to venture into the trap.

*****

God is apparently not listening. 

A few hours past sunset, the door to the warehouse creaks on rusty hinges, loudly announcing a new comer. From where he lurks in the shadows of the fifth floor room, Castiel closes his eyes in despair. It’s expected, he knew perfectly well he would be sought out after today’s earlier event, but some part of him had hoped to be ignored, that the impending confrontation would be left for a later time. 

He waits, motionless in the dark, watching the patterns that the neon lights of the city outside cast on the dirty floor. He counts the minutes in his head, trying to imagine the path the approaching figure might take through the labyrinth of stairs and passages up the levels of the warehouse. He’ll be keeping to the shadows as well, since instinct tells him to stay out of sight, stay invisible. An unseen threat is unpredictable and in this sort of battle, the shadows are the high ground. 

Castiel slips the silencer onto the nose of his handgun, checking the clip before slotting it into position. He takes note of the weight of the knives hidden inside his coat and flexes his hands, making sure they are limber and ready for action after lurking in one place all day. 

When his straining ears hear the light tread of careful footsteps, he freezes, sucking in a breath. He waits until the figure is standing equally still outside the doorway. He waits the long moment it takes for the figure to adjust to the new level of dark and creep into the room. He waits until the outstretched hand carrying a gun slides into view.

Then he strikes. 

His assailant spots him at the last minute and dives to the floor in a tucked roll to avoid the butt of Castiel’s gun to his temple. He’s quick, up in a crouch and lunging for Castiel’s gun hand. But professional as he is, Castiel has studied this man’s fighting style, his moves, his tricks. He’s reread the file until the lines blurred into Rorschach blots and the face in the photo is burned like a brand into his head. He anticipates the intended blow to his outstretched arm and swings it wide to avoid the gun being knocked from his hand.

The motion has left his torso vulnerable though and he takes a headbutt to the gut, the air rushing from his lungs in a grunt. Unable to compromise the sudden shift in balance, he stumbles backward, the man’s arms around his waist in a full tackle. They hit the floor with a mighty thud, Castiel thrashing to unpin himself while his attacker tries for his gun again. The heel of Castiel’s hand snakes up to catch the man’s nose and he swears violently, eyes watering.

Using this distraction to his advantage, Castiel wraps a thigh around the man’s waist and in one fluid motion flips them until he’s straddling his assailant’s chest. The man bucks, tossing Castiel to the right, and immediately lashing out with a booted foot to catch him in the side. Castiel still manages to raise his gun, aiming for a shot to the heart, but the man knocks his arm aside at the last second before he can fire. 

Castiel grunts as a fist cracks his jaw, seeing stars for a moment and having no choice but to flip backwards in a somersault to regain some distance and hopefully the upper hand. By the time he’s pushed himself to his feet again, trenchcoat rustling like a cape behind him, the man is up too and down in a martial arts crouch. He lists his fists in front of him in a boxer’s stance, panting, and goads Castiel to fight with a beckoning hand and a cocky grin. 

He’s not kept waiting. Castiel flies at him, throwing punches with both fists. He lands as many as he receives, until lips are split open and sprays of blood decorate their shirts and knuckles in grotesque lines. But Castiel is winning. Though every blow he lands is hard enough to leave Castiel reeling, the man isn’t fighting like his life depends on it- he’s fighting only because he’s been trained to do so. He doesn’t care if he wins or loses, and it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. These are just motions he’s going through, just like Castiel assembling his sniper rifle. 

Annoyed by this, Castiel lands a particularly hard uppercut to the man’s square jaw. It propels him backwards into a rickety table and while he’s busy catching himself with a crash on the edge, Castiel raises his gun once more, aiming at the dime-sized space between the man’s brows. 

But the man stays down. He leans heavily on the table, shifting only enough to meet Castiel’s eye as he spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor. 

“Heya, Cas,” the man pants, green eyes sparkling and visible even in the dim neon glow. 

“You shouldn’t have come here, Dean,” Castiel says quietly.

“Everybody’s gotta die sooner or later.” Dean’s smile is rueful, and a flash of pain behind his eyes momentarily makes him look haunted and vulnerable. “I knew they’d send somebody for me. I never dreamt it would be you.”

The look Castiel gives in return is remorseful and ashamed. “I’m the best. It’s only natural I would be given this kind of assignment.”

“You shouldn’t even know about assignments. You said you were a professor,” Dean says accusingly. “You should have told me what you are, should have told me you were on the job.” 

“Why?” Castiel asks in dismay. “You would have left. You left either way.” He’s slowly shifting to block the door in case Dean tries to make a break for it. But the man isn’t moving. He’s perched lanquidly on the battered table, hands at ease at his sides, expression open if not more than a little pissed. He’s got the relaxed body language of someone who completely trusts their present company and doesn’t fear a bit for their safety. Like there’s no gun trained on his forehead and blood doesn’t ooze down their faces. It’s not such a far stretch to imagine they’re back in their cramped apartment, bickering over who’s turn it is to unload the dishwasher. It hurts more than any blow from a fist possibly could. 

“Only because you got lazy and left your assignment packet out for anyone to find,” Dean snaps, green glare flashing. “Luckily, it was only me. And forgive me if I didn’t feel like hanging around and waiting for you to plug me in the face. You lying dick.”

“And what of your lie, Dean?” Castiel yells, face twisting with indignation. “I have to find out the truth from a piece of paper ordering your death at my hands! You’re a traitor to your agency. A hitman who’s defected and gone rogue and labelled as priority zero. Dangerous, ruthless, and cruel with sociopathic tendencies and total disregard for authority. Without emotion or regard for fellow humans. That’s what the file described you as, Dean.”

Dean swallows hard. “Yeah, well they ain’t wrong. You know what you have to be to do this job.”

“I do. But I know you. You were never cruel. You weren’t the man who fits that description when we were-” Castiel breaks. “When you were mine.” 

Dean’s eyelashes flutter as if he’d like to close his eyes to the claim, to the whole situation. But he only tips his chin up, regaining his composure, and meets Castiel burning stare with equal fire. “Yeah I was. You were just too stupid or too blind to notice,” he lies calmly. 

“Be careful, Dean. I’m still the man with a gun on you and you are still my mark.”

“You gonna kill me, Cas?” he smirks, but there’s a shadow of doubt in the recesses of his eyes, a faint echo of distrust still lingering from their original fallout.

Castiel keeps his face carefully blank. “Yes.”

“No you’re not,” Dean says, voice sure even if his eyes betray him. “You would have done it by now. A man of your talents? Yeah, I’ve done a little research of my own. And I seriously doubt it takes someone like you a full month to figure out how to take me down. ”

Castiel lowers his eyes. Neither of them bring up the fact that it took a good two weeks just to revel from the initial shock of discovering the truth about one another. Two of those weeks had been devoted to heavy drinking, teary late night diatribes over burner phones, and the following cold shoulder silence of men betrayed and wounded. The chase itself had only been in effect for half of that time. “I have no choice, Dean. I have orders.”

“To hell with your orders,” Dean barks, eyes flashing with sudden anger. It’s born from being trapped too long in a world of militant rules, Castiel knows, because lately the same feeling of confinement has him wanting to lash out in a similar fashion. It’s born of feeling stuck in a Catch 22 with no way out and of losing something you took for granted to be real and solid. Dean’s frustration is visible, pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth and adding deep shadowed lines to a face designed to stay youthful past reasonable age. “You got a choice. There’s always a choice.”

“Not in our world.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. “Then maybe we should get out of this world.”

“Are you suggesting disobedience? Following in your path and going rogue?” Castiel growls, narrowing his eyes and clenching his gun tight enough to leave the knuckles beneath the leather white. 

“They don’t own you, Cas. And my agency sure as hell doesn’t own me. We don’t owe them this kind of loyalty.” 

“They are more than employers, Dean. They are my family. I can’t abandon them as easily as you can abandon yours.” It’s a low blow, and unjustified if he thinks honestly about Dean’s brother and what Dean has done to keep Sam Winchester safe. But right now he wants to lay into the man as many wounds as he can, one for every cut that Dean has delivered to his skin, his heart. If he must be bled dry, what must he bleed alone? This started as a two-man triumph, it’s only right it should end in a two-man tragedy. 

Some of the color drains from Dean’s face, leaning it ashen. “I ought to break your nose for that.”

“You can try. Either way, it won’t convince me to rebel against my own people.”

“Your people,” Dean scoffs, disgusted. “They don’t give a shit about you! You’re just a hammer to them! You think what we do makes anything, anybody’s life better? The greater good? It’s all just a lie, you poor stupid bastard!”

Castiel stands firm. “We are soldiers, Dean. We’re trained to obey.”

“We are not soldiers,” Dean hisses, moving forward into Castiel’s space. “Who the hell are you trying to fool, Killer Angel? We are pawns. We’re widowmakers. We tear apart families and replace faces with bullseyes so we don’t have to deal with the guilt of being voluntary murderers and seeing our victims everywhere we go.”

Dean still sees the faces, Castiel knows. He sees each of them with photographic detail, in his waking dreams and in the dead of night. Names are erased and replaced with three letter words like ‘hit’ and ‘job.’ Blood red becomes their favorite color so it’s not longer stomach-turning. And fatal is no longer rack with negative connotations and fear, but instead a synonym with success. 

“These are people, Cas. What right do we have to steal their lives, their identities from them? Cause a higher intelligence says so? Hell, they turn agents on each other just for forgetting to tie a shoe. They could take out anybody in the world for no more reason except they fucking felt like it.” 

He’s right. Deep down, Castiel knows he’s right. But he can’t afford to entertain that line of thinking. He’s got the scars from sessions of company ‘reeducation’ to prove it. “It’s not our place to question how or why a mark is chosen. The goal is to save lives in the long run. If we lose faith in the system, if we stop to question the higher authorities, we become dangerous threats they have to eliminate. That’s all you are now to them, that’s what you’ve chosen to become.”

“That what I am to you now, Cas? A threat? Just another walking bullseye?”

“I can’t let you be anything else,” he answers softly. Dean can no longer be the beautiful thing he covets and cherishes. He can be only the beautiful enemy Castiel has to destroy. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Yeah, well I’m sorry too. Cause I ain’t got any intention on dying, Cas.”

“You should have thought of that before you defected.”

Dean groans, pulls at his hair in frustration. “You want to know why I defected?” 

Castiel isn’t sure he wants to know. 

“I got an order six months ago to take out a hitman for a rival agency. My last one before a well earned early retirement. I was getting out. I was gonna copy Sammy and try my hand at an apple pie life. They owed me that, after all the shit I’ve gone through for them. I thought it would be a simple in and out job. Easy payday. I was on my way to meet my handler Chuck, get the file on the guy, but I got distracted by this gorgeous man trying to carry half the local library’s inventory out in both arms.”

Castiel swallows hard, the memory surfacing to play itself before his mind’s eye in crystal clear detail against his will.

“So distracted, that I never saw the bus racing up behind me.”

“What kind of moron stops in the middle of a busy New York street?” Castiel mutters, seeing a less haggard, and more carefree Dean from that day projected onto the Dean before him. 

“That gorgeous guy saved my ass, came out of nowhere, books flying every which way around us. He gripped me tight, and pulled me up to safety. My very own guardian angel.”

Castiel winces, the irony of the moniker not lost on him.

“Man, I was so fucking smitten,” Dean murmurs, eyes glassy with fondness. “I don’t fall like that. I can’t afford to. But from the second I laid eyes on you, I’d never wanted anything so bad in my life. And after I tasted you that first time...Jesus, you were all I’d ever want again.”

Castiel remains silent. He can only stare, breath ragged in his aching chest, willing Dean with a sad shake of his head to shut up, stop talking. Don’t make this harder than it already is. 

Dean continues. “So naturally I was horrified when I ended up finally opening that file a couple weeks later and my angel’s face was looking up at me.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, the gun quivering in his hand for the first time. Realization hits him with enough force to send him reeling. “I was meant to be your last hit.”

“My winning lotto ticket,” Dean chuckles, bitter and humorless.

Castiel knows better, but he asks anyway. “Who’s signature is on the contract?”

Dean rakes his hand through his hair again. “Jesus, does it fucking matter?” 

“Who, Dean?”

Dean licks at his bottom lip, clearly not wanting to answer. He doesn’t have to. The regret shining in his eyes tells Castiel everything. He knows without a shadow of a doubt the contract for his termination is signed in the heavy-handed block lettering of the Seraphim Conglomerate’s CEO who also happens to be his eldest brother. 

“That son of a bitch. I believed...in-” Castiel’s voice dies off, choked by the massive swell of bile on the back of his tongue. 

Dean nods in understanding, never breaking their eye contact. “I know. It doesn’t matter who hired the hit. I couldn’t do it,” he says softly. “How could I?”

“How could you not?” Castiel whispers back, aghast. A thousand shards of emotions foreign to him, icy and sharp, cut through his whirling mind. He’s enraged, at this secret betrayal by the hands of his own company, his own blood kin. He’s devastated, that his years of service, the sacrifice it takes to be a good and steadfast soldier, is worth to them only the bullet through his skull. He’s sickened, at the thought of Dean being forced to choose between sparing the man he loves or signing his own death warrant. Every new surge of emotion feels like a physical blow. The conflict within him wells, and dizzy, he staggers backward a few paces, his characteristically steady trigger hand almost shaking the gun loose from his palm now. 

“Because I’m not a machine, Cas.” Dean’s tone is indignant, defensive. “You can’t expect me to cut out my own heart and stay upright. I made a choice. And now it’s your turn. No more crap about being a good soldier. There’s a right and there’s a wrong here and you know it.”

Castiel shakes his head, still dazed. “What would you have me do?” 

“Take your coat, leave your gun and just walk away. Walk away, Cas. To me. With me. While there’s still time. Please.”

“If I do that, we will both be hunted. We’ll both be killed.”

Dean nods, small and resolutely. And when he reaches out to encircle the wrist of the hand still clutching a gun, it’s a gesture fall too gentle for a man who kills by trade. Dean’s thumb fits itself into the dip above Castiel’s pulse point, drawing a small circle there, as he leans slowly and cautiously forward. He does not however try to take the gun. He’s trusting his assassin to grant him this moment of intimacy. 

Castiel can’t bare to rob him of it. He waits frozen, with baited breath, until the skin of Dean’s forehead is pressed against his own. Dean’s warm in a way Castiel has never been able to understand. Even with his eyes closed so tightly, he’s aware of Dean’s brightness, that vitality and spark that drew them together in the first place. They collide, melding into even this simple contact with all the force of an atom bomb, but it manifests only as a soft shared sigh from both men. Castiel leans into him, till not only wrist and forehead touch, but chest and toes and the point of hips. All become one line, and for just a moment, one heat and hope.

“If anything’s worth dying for,” Dean murmurs, lips centimeters from Castiel’s, “this is it.” 

He wants this- he wants this impossible dream of this man, this opportunity, so much that it aches like a bone deep wound. He wants to know what it feels like to walk down the street in broad daylight, able to turn his back on complete strangers with some measure of faith. He wants to be able to make his own decisions, to laugh at mistakes and wrong choices that don’t result in an unacceptable body count. He wants to paint the world in the intense green of Dean’s eyes, so different from the thick, cloying red he’s always been surrounded by. 

That red. He will never be rid of it. He will never be able to scrub it out. It will spread to Dean, who already wears his fair share of it and it will engulf them, drown them. One day it will be too hard and too far to run, and they will trip and fall, unable to carry the burden of each other’s weight another step. They will suffocate underneath the wave of blood spilled between them that is not their own and there will be no way to resurface from it. It will coat their eyes, seep into their mouth and every kiss will taste of copper and decay and deceit and it will be a reminder that they are only fooling themselves. 

There is no redemption for men like them. There is no love for men who do what they do. And though it shames him, the possibility of receiving either has him terrified. 

“I can’t.”

There’s a pregnant pause, one where they both cease breathing as reality takes president and leaves the air between them bitterly cold. 

“Goddamn coward,” Dean rasps eventually, squeezing his eyelids shut in pain. The explosion of fury Castiel is waiting for never comes however. Instead, there’s a click as Dean tries in vain to swallow the lump in his throat and then he’s leaning forward, suddenly too close. Castiel knows what he wants. Dean’s a man of action and intends to try a different means of persuasion to convince Castiel. But it’s impossible for him to kiss Dean and survive this. He ducks away, the gun clattering to the floor as he brings the hand up to press Dean’s warm cheek flat against his own. His friend flinches at the sudden movement, most likely expecting another punch. But Castiel presses their faces even closer, allowing no room for escape, refusing to let up on the pressure until Dean relaxes and pushes back against him with a soft sigh. 

“I am,” Castiel agrees, voice gruff. “I won’t hurt you, Dean. I won’t kill you. I’ll submit myself to Michael’s wrath and take my punishment willingly, as long as it means you stay alive. But you have no chance if I’m with you.”

Dean breathes into his ear, “You don’t have a snowball’s chance if you stay.”

“I’m aware.”

Clutching the trenchcoat lapels in tight fists, Dean clings to him, nuzzling the skin at the hinge of his jaw. “It’s both of us or nothing. Cas, we’re getting out of here. I’ll get us out, I swear.”

“You are. Go. Run, Dean,” Castiel murmurs into the crest of his cheek. “There will be others once they learned I’ve failed, but I’ll try to hold them off as long as I can. You might be able to get out of the country before they catch up.”

Dean draws back to give a shake of his head. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

A sudden white-hot flare of rage manifests as a growl from the back of his throat and without thinking, Castiel lunges, grabbing Dean by the shoulders and hurling him into the wall. The other man’s eyes widen and his breath is knocked from his lungs with an audible grunt, but before he can open his mouth to protest, Castiel is on him, forearm across his throat. His free hand splays across Dean’s stomach, pinning him flat against the wall. “Do as I say, Dean!” Castiel bellows, thunderous. He jams his arm up further on Dean’s neck, wringing a choked gasp from the man. “For once, act in your own interest and do as I say!”

“Cas-”

“I’m trying to save you,” Castiel cries in exasperation. “Don’t you understand?” He can’t listen to Dean’s blind faith, his stubborn refusal to surrender even as their world lies ready to burn to the ground and expect to walk away. He has to sever whatever this is tying them together, this illusion of a bond built on a foundation of half truths and wishes. But it would be easier to dig out his soul. Somewhere along the line, Dean Winchester has become a necessity, an amenity Castiel needs as much as breath, as water. He’s wormed his way under his skin, and bright as he is, he’s cauterized the lacerations that come from this bloody lifestyle. Castiel is revolted at the realization of how much he needs this man, of how much this man is ready to sacrifice to give them a one in a million chance. Castiel has him pinned to the wall, at his mercy, but even now, struggling for air, Dean doesn’t fight back. Because he believes Castiel won’t take advantage of his trust. He had chosen Castiel and risked everything and now he’s asking for the same in return. 

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean croaks hoarsely, staring down into Castiel’s eyes. “But if I run, who’s gonna be left to save you, angel?” 

Castiel’s resolve crumbles, the last of his fight draining away beneath the intensity of Dean’s brilliant green gaze. He drops his arm, releasing his chokehold. He forces a sad laugh, “You can’t save me, Dean. I was lost the moment I laid eyes on you.”

And then he surges forward, capturing Dean’s lips with his own. No more talking. He can't stand another word, another plea. 

Dean moans, latching onto his mouth with a ferocity that sets Castiel’s pulse off rhythm, heartbeat wild and racing in his ears. Still short on breath from being choked, Dean pulls back with a gasp in attempt for air, but Castiel growls, unwilling to allow him even that much space. He crushes their lips together, biting and nipping each of Dean’s lips in turn until the cracks reopen and a flood of coppery blood washes over his tongue. Dean responds in kind, licking into Castiel’s mouth with ravenous attention and tilting his head to fit them more securely together. 

“Cas,” he groans, tugging Castiel against him by the lapels. Castiel goes willingly, unable to keep from touching him a moment longer. He reaches up to cup the back of Dean’s head, manuvering him down for another kiss. Dean’s hands scramble at Castiel’s neck, trying to work the blue tie free but he’s shaking too hard to get a proper grip on the satiny fabric. He snarls his displeasure, punishing Castiel with a harsh clash of teeth on teeth and tongue battling tongue. 

Castiel slaps his hands away, making short work of the knot, but Dean interupts before he can pull the tie free, stripping it to the floor and ripping open the white dress shirt. Buttons ping in every direction, but Castiel couldn’t give a damn, too preoccupied with burying his fingers back in the soft tufts of Dean’s hair. He doesn’t get the chance, Dean grabbing him forcefully by the wrist and yanking off his glove. He strips the other hand, pushing the shirt and trenchcoat from Castiel’s shoulders, where it stays trapped in the right angle of his elbows.

The sudden exposure to the chilly air makes him hiss though, and Dean is quick to lower his mouth to Castiel’s collarbone in assistance. The heat of his tongue never comes though, and Castiel pauses, tugging at his hair in question. “Dean?”

The other man stills, eyes fixed on Castiel’s upper chest. He raises a hand to touch a small golden pendent hanging there in the middle, strung from a leather cord around Castiel’s neck. “You- you still wear it,” he says, dumb with wonder. He traces a finger along the cord, barely grazing over Castiel’s skin and making him shiver. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Castiel asks, tilting his head in confusion. “It’s yours.”

Dean’s eyes shine with wetness, but he can’t answer. Instead, he lowers his head to tongue at the necklace, catching the cord in his teeth and using it like a leash to pull Castiel back flush against him. 

Castiel’s breath hitches as Dean’s lips find the skin of his collarbone again, dragging a hot trail along the bone from one end to the other, nipping at the sensitive flesh and making Castiel claw at his back with a yelp. His hips buck on their own accord and they gasp as their clothed erections brush. Castiel does it again, needing more friction, more pressure. More. He needs more of Dean, having been deprived of his touch for too long. He wonders how he’s survived without it for a whole month, which now seems like a decade. 

“Oh god, Cas.” Dean puffs scalding little breaths all along Castiel’s chest, and when he dips his head lower to capture a nipple between his lips, Castiel almost screams. Maybe he actually does, because Dean fits his mouth back over his, swallowing his noise and stoking the flames of his need even higher. 

“Dean,” he gasps, fumbling at the other man’s belt, beyond frantic. “Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Fuck, yeah, angel.” The belt is shucked to the floor among the shirt buttons, his hands joining in to unfasten Castiel’s suit pants and slide a hand into his boxers. Without warning, he encircles Castiel’s straining cock and starts to jack him roughly beneath the cotton, already stained dark with a circle of precome. 

Castiel’s knees threaten to give out, his head whipping back fast enough to leave him dizzy. This, this is what he needs. This isn’t an act born of passion, of love. This is the rough and desperate act of men on the cusp of losing everything and needing to compensate with too much, too fast. There will be time for reconnection later, time enough to re-memorize the dips and hollows of Dean’s body, how the variations of gold in his skin taste. When, and if they are safe enough to pause and slow down, he’ll relearn the places that make Dean tremble and tell him with gentle, reverent touches how important he is. How he’s become breath and water and light and hope to a man who’s spent most of his life without such vital things, though he didn’t know it. 

But this isn’t the time for that. This is meant to be dirty, basest. Biting and grinding and rubbing that is meant to achieve release and lay claim. This is possession at it’s finest, straining toward a completion that will leave each other marked, physically and mentally for all the world to see. 

Castiel manages to finally pop the button on Dean’s jeans, shoving the denim down just far enough down his thighs to have Dean’s cock springing free to slap wetly against his abdomen, the head glistening and swollen-red. Castiel holds his palm up to Dean’s mouth expectantly and his lover doesn’t let him down. With a moan, the pink of Dean’s tongue darts out to lick at Castiel’s hand, the tip of it curling around a few of his fingers at the end. Castiel watches, eyes boring into Dean’s lust-hazy stare, pupils blown wide with . When satisfied his hand is wet enough, he encompasses the girth of Dean’s cock, heady off the way Dean jolts under his touch with a high-pitched whine. 

“Missed you. Missed you so fucking much,” Dean pants, striping Castiel’s cock faster. His hips pump frantically into the circle of Castiel’s fist and the sight of the plumy head disappearing in and out of his hand pushes Castiel to the brink faster than he believed possible.

“Turn around, Dean.” 

Dean’s eyes widen at the order, but if the way his breath speeds up, he’s not opposed to whatever Castiel has in store. With one last taste of Castiel’s lips, he spins, bracing himself against the decaying wall. 

Immediately, Castiel is pressed up behind him, shoving his boxers down to free his straining erection with one hand and gathering Dean’s shirt up around his chest with the other. Dean gasps as one finger catches on his nipple, made tight and dark by the cold. Desperate for the feel of skin and skin, Castiel presses up against Dean’s back, making the man purr in delight. The assassin rolls his hips, the length of his cock slotting against Dean’s exposed ass deliciously. 

“Cas. Cas, come on,” he moans, pushing backwards, needy. “Need you, come on.”

Castiel nips at the back of Dean’s neck, chastising his impatience. “Be still.” Another bite has Dean hissing through his teeth. Another roll of his hips along the man’s crack has him fidgeting, trying to impale himself on Castiel’s thick cock. 

“Goddamn it, enough foreplay. Fuck me already!” snarls Dean. 

Castiel bites him hard, clamping down hard on the muscle where neck and shoulder meet. Dean tosses his head back and positively mews in submission. The sound sends a blood rush straight to Castiel’s dick, making him smear a line of wet all along the base of Dean’s spine. “Do you want to get fucked or don’t you?”

“Yes,” Dean groans, lewd and shameless. His head drops forward again, pushing against the wall in frustration as he raises his ass in proposition. 

Castiel takes pity on him, running fingers through his hair. “Suck,” he orders, placing three fingers against Dean’s plump, whisker-burned lips. Dean opens his mouth and cocoons them in wet heat, swirling his tongue around the digits and sucking with abandon. 

“Nice and wet,” Castiel instructs, voice shaking as Dean shoots a sly glance over his shoulder, lips stretched wide and making obscene sounds as saliva drips down Castiel’s fingers. He feels himself harden impossibly further and knows he isn’t going to last long once he’s inside Dean’s eager body.

He pulls his fingers out of Dean’s mouth with a pop, reaching down and spreading the man open before him. Circling the puckered opening once, twice, he watches as the muscle convulses, trying to suck him in. Dean slams his head against the wall. “Cas. Come on.” 

Without further ado, Castiel slides two fingers into Dean’s hole, the man grunting at being so roughly handled, but the way Dean’s cock pulses at finally being filled tells Castiel he needs to tread this line between pain and pleasure as much as Castiel does. He withdraws his fingers, shoving them back in before Dean can utter the protest building on his tongue. Again and again, Castiel sinks long digits in to scissor and rub Dean from the inside out, having to widen his stance behind him to avoid getting knocked over by the man’s wild bucking.

“More,” Castiel is commanded and he obeys, slipping a third finger into the tight heat and having to drop his head against Dean’s trembling shoulder to keep himself from swooning at the sight. It’s been so long. 

Dean is fucking himself back hard on the fingers inside him, and Castiel has had about all he can stand. He removes his fingers, ignoring Dean’s angry growl and spits generously into his palm, slicking his erection as thoroughly as possible with shaking hands. He lines up the leaking head of his cock at Dean’s entrance, driving himself home in one quick thrust. 

“Holy fuck, Cas.” Dean reaches back to pull Castiel in till his balls connect with the meat of Dean’s ass and he’s gasping at the inevitable burn of being stretched and filled so fast. Castiel leaves him little time to adjust, snapping his hips forward in a bruising rhythm, head spinning from the feel of Dean’s vice-like heat around his cock. He clutches at the man’s hips, pressing little dips of kisses along his shoulder blades and spine. 

“Dean,” is all he can repeat. Dean is making little whimpers in reply, his back arching and ass tilting up to take Castiel deeper, faster. He leans onto the balls of his feet, searching for the angle that will strike that sweet spot inside him. Despite the frenzied pounding, he manages to reach up above his head and clasp the nape of Castiel’s neck, tucking the tips of his fingers beneath the amulet’s cord. 

“They can’t ever take you, Cas” he pants brokenly, every word punctuated with a gasp as the head of Castiel’s cock brushes his prostate. “You belong to me.”

Castiels groans, long and low, thrusting in and out of Dean’s ass hard enough to knock him into the wall, sending paint flakes raining down around them. A hand comes up to cover Dean’s where it stays threaded through his hair and he drops random kisses along the nearest skin within reach; Dean’s inner wrist, Dean’s temple, Dean’s beautiful back. Again and again he showers him with soft, wet kisses to compensate the brutal pounding Dean’s taking beneath him. 

Dean is thrusting back against him greedily, wanting more. “Gonna make me come, gonna make me come,” he slurs, reaching a hand between his legs to palm his dripping cock, jerking it without a set rhythm. 

“Oh god, yes. Come for me, Dean. I want to see you.”

As if he’s been waiting for permission, Dean lets out a choked scream, spurting long white ropes of come all over the wall in front of him. Castiel hastily reaches around to milk him through his orgasm, Dean shuttering as the rest of the warm liquid spills over Castiel’s fingers. “Cas. Cas,” he sobs. 

Dean clenches, the muscles of his hole fluttering around Castiel’s cock as his orgasm subsides and it’s more than enough to tip Castiel head first into his own release. Pumping his hips once, twice, he buries himself to the hilt inside Dean and comes with a drawn out groan, filling him, painting his insides white and claiming him for his own. 

For several minutes, the world has receded and left only CasandDean and the press of damp lips along ears and neck and entwined fingers, their panting echoing in the long- abandoned room and sounding like a storm.

“We’re never going that long again without sex,” Dean announces once he can form coherent words, “I don’t care who’s been ordered to kill who.”

Castiel chuckles weakly, slumping against Dean’s back and brushing his lips over the red blossoms starting to pop up all over his neck. He likes the idea that Dean will wear his marks when they leave this warehouse and step into a new life of their own creation. 

Eventually their breathing slows and the sheen of sweat turns too cold for even body heat to ward off. With a grunt, Dean pushes back from the wall, shrugging himself free of his lover’s weight. He pauses to lay a soft kiss along Castiel’s hairline before setting to right his clothing. He slides his jeans up over his hips, only bothering with the zipper. His shirttails gets tugged back into place and with a grimace, he leans over to snag his belt from the floor.“We got to get going. We can’t stay in one place for too long.”

Castiel looks down at his shirt, deeming it a lost cause. He fastens the belt of his trenchcoat and hunts for his tie and gloves. “What are we supposed to do? They’ll have a bounty on us both by now.”

The afterglow starts to drain from Dean’s face. “Yeah, most likely. We’ll run,” he says with a shrug that masks a concern Castiel can see through to. “As far as we can, as hard as we can. Chuck knows about us, that I was trying to get you to leave with me. He’ll be willing to help us, for the right price.”

“If we can make it to Zurich, I have an private untraceable account. There’s passports in a lockbox. And money. And weapons.”

“That’s my boy,” Dean grins, looking a little more sure than he did initially. 

Castiel gives him a searching look, eyes narrowing. “This won’t be easy, Dean. We can’t afford to ever set plans in stone or slow down. We’ll have to make it up as we go.”

“Well I’d hate for you to get bored, Cas. Don’t let anybody say I never brought excitement to your life.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Who would dare?” 

Dean laughs,taking up Castiel’s hand and pressing his lips to the back of it as they shift back into the dark of the warehouse, fingers entwined. It sounds like music to his ears and for a single, brief moment, Castiel has hope that will indeed, be alright, stronger together and able to take on the whole world.


End file.
